to walk with the gods
by sangi
Summary: "You are young, and often to be young is the same as to be foolish." Thom.


**Title**: to walk with the gods  
**Author**: sangi (honestly-sangi)  
**Disclaimer**: I disclaim any rights to Tamora Pierce's works or the characters contained therein.  
**Rating**: T  
**Words**: 1026  
**Prompt**: prompt 31_days on livejournal; November 30– "I created you. You created me."  
**Char/Pair**: Thom, Alanna, Duke Roger of Conté, Delia of Eldorne, Si-cham  
**Warnings**: Unbeta'd  
**Summary**: "You are young, and often to be young is the same as to be foolish." On Thom.  
**Notes**: I've always wanted a deeper look into Thom.

* * *

Bright purple eyes regard the still rabbit, tears pooling at the corners.

Softly, with gentle hands, Thom pets the soft fur between his rabbit's ears. The boy's amethyst-colored Trebond gift washes against the pelt, but Maude's sharp voice stops him from doing anything further. "It's too late, lad, and you've not the power for it. The poor thing is with the Black God now." When he still doesn't move, staring blindly at his dead pet, the old woman lays a hand on his shoulder. "Go on, now, young master Thom," she says, not unkindly. "I'll take care of him."

He feels Maude's gaze on his back until he turns the corner.

By the time he finds Alanna, practicing archery with Coram in one of the northern courtyards, he has stopped sniffling.

It wasn't her pet - it was his, and while she is saddened and comforts him, his sister doesn't cry. She isn't soft, like other girls. Coram turns away to give them some privacy, though neither of them talk much.

"One day," he says suddenly, "I'll have the power."

"The power to what?" she asks, already distracted and stringing a longbow.

"To bring them back. The dead."

It isn't a boast; he means it to be a promise.

Thom watches quietly as the shiver travels down her spine. "Don't say things like that, Thom. Don't tempt the gods." And then she is drawing back the bow while her brother looks into the distance at the setting sun behind Coram, rays painting the horizon bright shades of red and orange and purple.

_I won't tempt them_, he thinks. _I'll walk with them._

* * *

Delia's smile is the color of blood as her hand clasps with his while they both rotate around the room. "It would be especially impressive," she says, chestnut curls framing her face, "if you could do it. I mean – it would truly prove what a great sorcerer you are – "

Thom's hand tightens on hers. "I don't need to prove myself." Cold tone, narrowed eyes: this is what he gifts her. She's beautiful, but beauty only goes so far.

Her expression, though, turns into a feral smirk, and her sharp fingernails dig into the skin on the back of his hand. "But don't you?" she asks, the picture of ignorance, green eyes dancing.

He takes little pleasure in taking Delia of Eldorne to his bed.

She seems to enjoy it, though, and before long the whole palace has heard of her taunt.

* * *

Duke Roger of Conté is a handsome man, with dark hair and dark eyes and the hint of a charming grin on his face. But his words cut like knives when he wishes them to, and this Thom learns well. The younger mage learns when to lick his wounds and retreat… and when to stand his ground.

"You aren't a very powerful sorcerer, if you didn't realize that I wasn't dead." Roger's voice is toneless, nearly lifeless, as he surveys the chess board. "I would think that a tried and true master from the City of the Gods would recognize the Sorcerer's Sleep." At last he moves a white piece forward, taking one of Thom's in the process.

"Maybe," Thom concedes, advancing a carved onyx pawn. "And maybe not." Inside of him he feels the burgeoning orange magic, mixing with his own, creating an abomination. Red. Blood. Magic that refuses his commands and drains his life force – slowly, but surely.

Roger's answering smile is chilling. "But you felt as if you needed to prove yourself, didn't you? Such an easy trap to fall into. Pride."

Check.

"A trap with which you are intimately familiar, Roger?"

Mate.

Both of them laugh, the sound echoing dully in the cold room.

* * *

At last Alanna leaves the two men alone, both Masters of the Gift: Si-cham and Lord Thom of Trebond. Across a table with a steaming pot of tea they sit, observing each other.

Thom finally reaches out his hand and Si-cham takes it. Little more than a minute later, the old Mithran priest opens his eyes and sighs.

"You do not have much time left," he says, pouring himself a cup of tea.

"I know." Thom's voice is weak, his body tired. His magic twisted. "But I just need a bit more."

"I'll help you then," says Si-cham a long moment later, pouring a second cup for the younger sorcerer. "It will give you time; perhaps enough time for us to discover a cure." Thom's mouth twists bitterly. There is no cure, no fix. Not for this mistake.

When the cups are empty and Si-cham rises to stretch, Thom holds out a hand and his eyes glitter a dangerous purple. "Don't tell Alanna. She doesn't need to know exactly how foolish I have been."

"You are young, and often to be young is the same as to be foolish." The older man's hands begin to glow steadily as his Gift leaks out. "Your sister cares deeply for you, Master Thom. You are a lucky man."

Thom sighs, acutely feeling the weariness in his bones. "Yes, I am a lucky man."

"Any regrets to confess?" Master Si-cham begins to sift through Thom's Gift like a fine sieve. With a small, secretive smile: "I am a priest, after all." _And you are dying _goes unsaid.

With a distant look, Thom thinks of Alanna: as a young girl, with red curls and a stubborn mouth, practicing archery with Coram and skinning rabbits quick as any man; as a woman, as a knight renowned throughout the Eastern Lands, a fierce lioness in shades of gold on her shield, her sword fast as lightning and sharp blade kissing necks like young lovers. He thinks of Jonathan the King-to-be, and George Cooper, and Duke Roger of Conté.

"Just one," he says finally.

"Hm?"

With a crooked grin he responds, "That I didn't get to walk with the gods."

Si-cham pauses in his work. "A lofty goal, young Master Thom." After resuming his ministrations, the old man continues softly, "One I wouldn't count out just yet."

Thom looks down at his hands.

They glow a sickly red.


End file.
